


between the shadow and the soul

by direSin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (very mild) bondage, (very mild) femdom, Angst, F/M, Pegging, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: “I don’t need a lecture, Yen,” Geralt says tightly.“I know what you need.” She tilts her head, looking him over, and her expression gives nothing away. Then something shifts in it and she sighs. “Godsdammit,” she says, like she’s never meant anything so much in her life.He doesn’t blame her. He isn’t supposed to be her problem anymore. She shouldn’t have to put him back together, and what he’s asking for, it’s too much. He damn well knows that. He just couldn’t think of anything else to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story takes place shortly after the end of BaW and assumes the Empress ending - except Geralt and Yennefer never resolved their differences. Geralt angst-fest, mostly, because it's what Geralt does best.
> 
> *Title from a poem by Pablo Neruda.*

Their eyes meet and he’s the first to look away. “You have every right to tell me to fuck off. I’m aware.”

“Fuck off, Geralt.”

She doesn’t sound like she means it but he can’t be sure she’s joking either. There’d been a time when he’d’ve been sure, when he’d have laughed and pressed his lips to hers and she’d have let her resistance melt away and kissed him back. But he had burned that bridge and did his level best to salt the ground, so now they’re talking over a threshold. Three feet apart, if that, but it’s a lot of space.

“You look like death warmed over,” she says. Her tone is flat; it’s an observation, nothing more.

Geralt drags a hand over his face. She isn’t wrong: he’d caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror downstairs and wished he hadn’t. “Thanks. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

She doesn’t smile; she used to smile when he said things like that. Her eyes are steady and the shadows turn their violet into steel. She hasn’t changed, and it’s probably his exhaustion but she seems to warp the light in the room. It hurts to look at her and he swallows against the tight knot in his throat.

His limbs feel sluggish, weighted, like his bones are too heavy. He slumps against the doorway and lets his eyes fall shut. She doesn’t need to see them to know what he’s thinking and for once he’s glad. Let her read his mind, not that she’s ever asked for permission. This way he doesn’t have to say it out loud.

Behind his closed eyelids memories flicker: foul mists rising off murky waters; dank caves; narrow passages beneath crumbling ruins, the air rank with decay. Days on horseback, endless rain falling, a river overrunning its banks; and he’s tired, so fucking tired -

“How long have you gone without sleep?”

Geralt opens his eyes. Her arms are crossed under her breasts, pushing them up; half-dead as he feels, it’s impossible not to stare. Her diamond star glitters in the hollow between her collarbones. He tries not to remember the taste of her skin.

“Up here, Geralt,” she says, snapping her fingers.

He blinks and raises his eyes. “Sorry.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“That’s hardly informative, is it.”

“I really don’t know, Yen. I’ve lost track.” Days? Weeks? He has no idea. It happens sometimes, when he’s too strung out on potions and adrenaline. It gets rough if he doesn’t deal with it: senses dulled, reflexes shot to hell, signs failing. A sure way to get yourself killed.

Her dark eyebrows rise a fraction. “Let’s see if I can get this right. Back-to-back contracts, lots of them. All difficult, all requiring the use of potions. The nastier ones.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Something like that.” She fixes him with a cool gaze. “Well, witcher, you may have superhuman senses but you are, in fact, human. Mostly. It’s called undue strain.”

“I don’t need a lecture, Yen,” Geralt says tightly.

“I know what you need.” She tilts her head, looking him over, and her expression gives nothing away. Then something shifts in it and she sighs. “Godsdammit,” she says, like she’s never meant anything so much in her life.

He doesn’t blame her. He isn’t supposed to be her problem anymore. She shouldn’t have to put him back together, and what he’s asking for, it’s too much. He damn well knows that. He just couldn’t think of anything else to do.

He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, but she’s already stepping back from the door.

“Come in,” she says in a low voice. “But Geralt - ”

He breathes out, lightheaded with relief. “It changes nothing. Yen, I know.”

Her eyes linger on him for a moment before she turns.

He follows her across the entry room and down a hallway, her heels clicking sharply against the inlaid marble floor. The place is undeniably Yen. The furnishings - and there isn’t much, she’s never had any use for clutter - look very expensive and very austere though Geralt knows from experience they wouldn’t be uncomfortable. She likes stark lines but not at the cost of her back.

“Where are your swords?” she asks him over her shoulder.

“With the sergeant. They wouldn’t let me upstairs - ”

“That’s right.” She pushes open a door and motions him into the room.

He pauses in the doorway to look around but he’s so wrung out it’s mostly a blur. His mind is still reeling that she let him in. He’d expected a brisk _Go fuck yourself_ ; he’d figured the irony would appeal to her. “Black bedding, really?” he says when the silence becomes unbearable.

“I like black. You object?”

“So that’s why you stayed in Nilfgaard.”

“But of course. My priority in life is the color palette.”

Geralt grunts, faint amusement seeping through exhaustion. For a second she sounded like her old self again. He missed the teasing lilt in her voice. He missed seeing that quirk to her lips.

He missed _her_.

That shouldn’t catch him off guard the way it does.

He resists the urge to clench his fists. “Mind if I clean up?” he asks, the first thing that comes to mind. Better than _I missed you and it’s turning me inside out._ The frost would be back in her eyes if he said that and he’s not sure he could stand it. He’s not sure he can stand this parody of what they used to be. It’s his own doing, to be fair, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.

“I should hope so. You reek of blood and horse and gods only know what else.” She wrinkles her nose and the expression is so familiar it sets off a hollow ache in his chest.

“Nekker guts,” he supplies, before his mouth can form other words. “Griffin guts. Endrega guts.”

She gives an exaggerated shudder. “Spare me. I can see the pattern.”

She watches him struggle with his armor for a few moments before she closes the distance between them and bats his hands away. Her fingers are quick and efficient and she knows the right order and all the buckles and laces. Once she has the leathers off him she makes a face, holding them with the tips of her fingers. He stares down at them, his vision hazy with remembering, his insides twisting up.

Nothing has changed. She is a shock to his senses, as ever, and the weight of history between them makes it difficult to breathe. He was a fool to imagine that staying away from her would do a damned thing. What was he thinking?

“I’ve something to attend to.” He can hear her speak and the words mean something but her voice is tinny and far away, like she’s talking through a megascope. “I might be - Geralt? Are you about to _faint_ on me?”

“No, I’m - ” His voice dies in his throat and he swallows and tries again. “I’m fine.”

She looks at him sidelong and snorts. “Yes, I can see that.” She drops the leathers, grabs his elbow and steers him, backing him up until he sinks down in an armchair. “Stay,” she orders before she leaves the room, and he doesn’t especially want to move. The chair is ridiculously comfortable and the lingering scent of her is so strong he can taste it on his tongue like wine. He’d remain there forever if he could. She has never cared for cats but maybe she’ll want a pet witcher.

Gods, his humor is as wretched as the rest of him.

She comes back and presses a cool glass into his hand. Whatever’s in it smells expensive. “Drink,” she tells him, and he has no objections but when he tries to lift his head blood pounds behind his eyes. She frowns, looking down at him, and helps him steady the glass.

The taste, unmistakable, startles him out of his daze. “Is that - ”

“Redanian single malt, yes.”

“I’ll be damned.” He takes a careful, reverent swallow. “Thought they didn’t make the stuff anymore.”

“They don’t. The distillery was ruined in the war.”

Pity, he thinks, and gets immediately distracted because she's kneeling down in front of him. A sense memory jolts him - wet pressure around his cock, slide of lips and tongue - and his heart stutters but she only pats him briefly on the knee. “Quite a mess, aren’t you,” she says as she starts to unlace his boots.

“I’ll live,” he mutters, trying for flippant and only managing hoarse. His view of her is obscured by her hair and he almost threads his fingers through it before he remembers himself and curls them around the chair arm.

The silence lasts half a breath too long.

“As I’ve said, I must leave for a bit,” she says. “Help yourself to the bed if you wish. _After_ you bathe.” She straightens up, done with the laces, and crosses her arms in front of her. Geralt tries not to stare again. “For gods’ sake, Geralt, you’re all but ready to keel over and yet you can’t stop ogling tits?”

“But they’re very nice tits.”

She huffs but it’s more amusement than anything else. “Try not to drown in my bath if you please.”

“Good advice, Yen. I’ll try.”

“You still aren’t as funny as you think.” She hesitates a little, then touches him lightly on his sword arm. “Shall I have a look before I go?“

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s healing.” The constant irritation has been working on his nerves for days, an ever-present burn like a heated brand under his skin. But it’s not unbearable and he doesn’t want to ask another favor of her. This, he can deal with.

She shrugs. ”What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Got clipped,” Geralt says shortly.

“Poison?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Finish your whisky.”

He drains the glass obediently and lets her take it from him. “Yen?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Thank you.”

She stops, half-turned away from him, and she doesn’t quite smile but it’s in her voice when she says, “Oh, not yet.” She says it dirty-low, like a promise - like something he can look forward to. He’s almost forgotten what that feels like.


	2. Chapter 2

Her bathing chamber is every bit as lavish as Geralt thought it would be. Instead of a tub there’s a pool in the center of it, big enough to swim in. A crackling ball of white-blue flame floats above it, radiating heat. He strips off his clothes and climbs in, mindful of the fireball. The water cradles him, hot and fragrant, easing the strain in his back from days in the saddle, the other aches he’s carried for too long, scattered here and there like pinpricks. His medallion won’t stop vibrating so he takes it off, setting it on the marble shelf that houses a collection of soaps. He picks one at random; it has a spicy scent, subtle enough to be pleasant. Half-floating he contemplates scraping off days worth of stubble but he doesn’t have the energy for it. It’s an effort of will just to duck his head under water to rinse out the soap.

He clambers out of the pool and dries himself on a towel so plush it might as well be royal velvet. Maybe it is. The floor is cold under his bare feet once he steps out of the bathing chamber. A charcoal sketch hanging on the wall draws his attention and he wanders over to take a closer look.

Rather, it’s a series of six sketches framed together, done by a deft, expert hand. Yen smiling, her eyes half-closed and her hair flying in the wind. Yen in three quarter turn, staring off into the distance, a small frown between her eyebrows. Yen with her head held high and her nostrils flaring, clearly riled. A thoughtful Yen. A formal Yen, her hair done up elaborately. A wry Yen, the corners of her eyes crinkling with humor.

It's obvious she didn’t pose for these; they were done from memory, by someone who knows her well. Someone she’s allowed into her life - in which he no longer has a part. The thought leaves a sick hollow feeling in his stomach.

He flops down on the bed. The mattress gives under him, soft and luxurious. Her scent is everywhere and every time he breathes in, he breathes her too. He can’t meditate any more than he can sleep so there’s nothing to do but lie there, listening to the rush of pulse in his ears and his own careful breathing.

The sun’s gone down by the time he hears her footfalls in the entry room. He props himself up on his elbows and waits.

“Awake, are you?” she says from the doorway. “Do you want a - “

“No.” He’s too much of a mess for blindfolds and cock rings and whatever else she keeps in that drawer of hers these days.

“As you are, then. Hands and knees, facing that way.” She jerks her chin toward the opposite wall. The violet of her eyes is swallowed by darkness.

The cool air marks his skin with goosebumps as he throws the covers back. The candles on the bedside table flicker to life at her word. He’s left his hair loose and it falls in his face, prickling his eyelids, but at least it’s distracting him from the embarrassment of getting on all fours in the middle of her bed. He’s never been self-conscious about anything to do with pleasure - except this. This is different. This is baring a hell of a lot more than the collection of scars he’s accumulated over the years; offering up the parts of himself he’s not even sure how to deal with. But there’s a dark, guilty kind of thrill to it and it’s lighting up his nerves, even through the fog of exhaustion and heartache, and for the first time in fuck knows how long he’s feeling something other than miserable.

She’s taking her time with the harness and he knows it’s meant to get him worked up. But he also knows she’s watching him, and the flicker of her eyes across his body sends a ripple of anticipation over his skin. He could look over his shoulder but doesn’t, sighing quietly as he listens to the sounds of leather sliding into place and the faint clinking of metal rings. A complex scent fills the air - white myrtle, lavender oil, something else he can’t readily name - but he doesn’t hear her slicking anything with it, so she might’ve uncorked the vial just to fuck with him. She doesn’t want him to know for sure any more than he does.

She comes over at last and her hands push his shoulders down. He offers no resistance, bracing himself on his forearms and burying his face in the sheets. He gets a glimpse of complicated-looking straps fastened around her hips and thighs and a carved cock jutting out at him, and something uncomfortably hot flares up in his belly.

She’s wearing something silky underneath the straps; it’s nice but not as nice as her skin and he asks, before he can think about it, “Yen, could you take that off?”

There’s a warning in the way she stiffens. “Then I shall have to use the cuffs. One or the other, Geralt.”

She’s making a point and yes, he gets it. She doesn’t want his touch on her skin. He breathes through the pang of it, then says, voice rasping low, “Fine. The cuffs.”

“As you wish.”

Cool metal circles his wrists. She leans over him to fasten the cuffs together and thread the chain through the slats of the headboard. Her bare breasts brush against his back and his cock jerks. Then a tingle of magic runs up his injured arm and he turns his head to glare at her.

“Oh, hush,” she says, petting him on the nape of his neck before she climbs up on the bed behind him. “That isn’t the kind of pain you need.”

Her hand slides down between his shoulder blades, along his spine, and he shifts on his knees, already trembling a little. “You’re awfully tight,” she says, fingertips dipping into him. “This is how you want it?” He stays silent, not giving his voice a chance to catch. “Geralt, I’ve no wish to injure you. You do enough damage to yourself as it is.” Her fingers withdraw, returning after a moment, slick with oil. They work him for a bit, stretching but not doing deep. “If you’re sure,” she says as she eases her fingers out of him. He keeps his mouth resolutely shut and her hands spread him open.

No matter that he knew it was coming, there’s no preparing for this. No way to hold back the moan, long and ragged, and gods, he sounds wrecked already. He feels wrecked - about to shake apart, every muscle straining, coppery taste in his mouth from biting into his bottom lip. She did oil the cock after all and he’s pathetically grateful for that. He’s forgotten what it’s like, the burn and the stretch and the inevitability of it, and how trying to hold still for it drives you out of your mind.

“Is this what you want?” she asks, sheathed in him to the hilt, and fuck. Fuck. It is. But his body is struggling with it anyway, the carved cock solid and huge inside him, unmoving, and he’s beyond talking for the moment, just trying to remember how to breathe.

She doesn’t give him much time, leaning forward and twisting his hair around her fist. When she tugs on it, pulling his head back, his back arches and the cock inside him slips in just that little bit deeper. He bites back another moan.

“None of that,” she snaps and yanks on his hair again. “I wish to hear you. I’m fucking you and I want to know you feel it.” She gives a slight shove with her hips that he feels all the way up his spine all right.

“Is this - the ivory?” he asks, hoarse. It’s not what she meant but it’s the best he can do.

“Why yes. Geralt, you remember! Go on, then. Fuck yourself on it.”

He lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yen - “

“Geralt.”

“Yen, I can’t.”

“Of course you can. You simply don’t want to. But I want it. I want to watch you do it.” Her fingertip traces the tender skin stretched around the ivory shaft. “I can see it very well from here, you know - your splendid ass stuffed full of cock.”

 _Gods._ He grits his teeth, numb with mortification and so turned on a single stroke might finish him, and underneath it all thoroughly annoyed with himself. He’d been so fucked up he rode all the way to Nilfgaard to ask Yen for this - Yen, after breaking it off with her - and now he’s in her bed on his hands and knees, with ten inches of cock up his ass, and still he can’t make himself let go.

“Have it your way,” she says and releases her grasp on his hair. She begins pulling out and it occurs to Geralt that she means to withdraw completely and leave him empty and desperate, suspended between his inhibitions and his need. The need is sharper, rising above the nagging shame, and he shoves back against her. It still burns and he still can’t keep silent against the pleasure-pain of it. But her fingers tangle in his hair again, anchoring him, and her free hand strokes his flank in approval. “That’s it. That’s good,” she croons. “Take it, just like that, yes.”

And he’s never been one for dirty talk but fuck if it isn’t doing things for him right now, her rich voice gone husky and almost tender with it. “Look at you,” she says, “so hungry for it. Just want to give it over, hmm? You can. You can fuck yourself stupid on it. Go on, witcher, take it.”

With her grip on his hair he doesn’t have a wide range of motion so he keeps rolling his ass against her hips and she holds still for him. Her skin is silky-hot against his ass and thighs and he can smell her arousal, the heady musk of it, and he just needs - he needs -

She nudges his knees wider apart and he has to cant his hips, and the next time he rocks back against her his pulse trips over itself. The sound he makes scrapes his throat raw.

“Ah,” she says, drawing back, and rests a hand on his hip to stop him moving. When she thrusts into him again she isn’t gentle and the pleasure is so pure and sharp that, for one terrifying moment, he can’t breathe. Then the breath shudders out of his lungs and he grabs fistfulls of sheets and lets her take over, no longer caring what that looks like, how he sounds, blessedly free of giving a damn about anything except _this_ \- the way she fits against him, the cock ramming into him, the sweet aching pressure deep inside.

He forgets that he hasn’t slept in days. He forgets that she’s gone from his life. He forgets about the cuffs and nearly falls forward onto his face, unbalancing himself as he tries to touch his cock. It feels like mercy when she reaches around to take hold of it.

“You can let go now,” she murmurs. Her grip is sure and almost too rough, so perfect his vision blurs. “I have you. Let go, Geralt.”

It’s like free-falling - a lung-crushing rush and a trickle of panic, the good kind. He comes in long endless pulses, the world around him fading at the edges like an old painting. She strokes him through it until there’s nothing left of him - he’s gone, drowned under a wave of contentment. Dissolving in it, the aftershocks shimmering through his body.

There are hands touching him, nice hands, gentle, encouraging him to lie down. They know what they are about; this is so much better. His wrists have been freed and he isn’t really thinking, nowhere near all there yet when he catches one of those hands and murmurs, lifting his head an inch above the pillow, “C’mere.”

“No,” she says, shaking him off, and steps out of his reach.

He puts his head down again, the sweetness of the afterglow fading like morning mist, leaving only fatigue behind. He can hear a soft rustle of cloth to his right. She must be getting into a dressing gown.

“Don’t sulk, Geralt,” she says tersely. “We aren’t having a sweet little tumble for old time’s sake. It’s not what this is. We’ve agreed.”

“Yeah,” he says into the pillow. “We’ve agreed.”

She uses her magic to clean up the mess and pulls the covers over him and then, unexpectedly, sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. “Sleep, witcher,” she says, brushing his hair away from his face. Her thumb skims across his cheekbone.

And he knows he shouldn’t but she’s touching him and he’s too exhausted and too raw to filter things properly and he says, “Don’t leave.”

Her fingers pause for so long he has all the time in the world to curse himself for opening his fool mouth. But after a moment she sighs again and her hand resumes stroking his hair.

He sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the Empress ending cutscene, when Ciri says 'We needn't say goodbye,' Geralt chooses the harsher option and tells her, 'Yeah, we do.'

It’s light when he wakes and she’s not there. He’s not surprised; she’s only ever engaged on her terms or not at all. He understands - but the part of him that hoped against hope knots itself up a little tighter. There’s an aftertaste of herbs in his mouth. It reminds him of jerking awake to find her holding a glass to his lips.

“You need to drink,” she said, her voice fading at the end like an echo. He rose up on one elbow. The bed was rolling under him and the lovely carved pillars supporting the ceiling gyrated, poking it like fingers. He wondered what was wrong with them. He slurped down the stuff without tasting it, too dizzy to care, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Go back to sleep,” she said and he dropped back down into the pillows, dragging at her hand. He could feel her muscles tense in his grasp. He kissed her wrist and pressed her hand to his cheek and was asleep again before she had the chance to pull away.

He swings his feet to the floor and the gravity doesn’t drag him down. His body moves with the sort of effortless fluidity he hasn’t felt in good fifty years. Even the ever-present stiffness in his knee is gone. His armor’s been meticulously cleaned and his boots shined to a gleam they didn’t possess when new. Someone washed his clothes and they smell of lavender and cloves. His swords are leaning against the bedside table, his medallion hung around the crosspiece of the silver. And he’s starving, too hungry to puzzle over anything except the shortest route to food. Any food. A south end of a northbound horse would do.

First things first though. He’s put it off long enough.

The sergeant on duty listens to his request with a blank expression. His eyes keep sliding to the hilts of Geralt’s swords but he asks no questions, only nods shortly in acknowledgement. No more than ten minutes pass before the guard he dispatches returns with a chamberlain in tow.

It’s a long walk - up the wide marble stairs, past columns capped with winged heads, past black shields emblazoned with suns on the walls, between frescoed scenes of chaos and death. Someone else might call them scenes of victory. Passing through the doorway at the far end of the hall jolts Geralt’s stomach; it must be a portal. His medallion, twitching against his chest, concurs. Another staircase, another hallway. Another set of doors. The chamberlain gives one precise rap before nudging them open and bowing him in.

The room is smaller than he expected but bright and airy, with a cut-glass door leading to a balcony. He pauses for a moment, letting his pupils adjust.

It’s strange to see her in black, stranger still in a dress. She doesn’t look uncomfortable in it. She looks every bit a princess - Her Royal Highness Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the heiress to the empire that swallowed the whole of the continent.

She’ll never be that to him.

“Ciri,” he says and her eyes flicker up. Her hair is braided into a crown around her head and her scar is all but gone; his eyes only pick it out because he knows it should be there.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought - the way we left things - “

“I was an ass,” he says, and it’s easier than he thought it would be because he can hear the hurt fighting through the forced calm of her voice and there isn’t much he wouldn’t do to erase it. He’s had three years to regret the finality of his words, to miss her and to tell himself he’d go see her just as soon as he was done with this contract. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Ciri. I just - I didn’t see it coming. It threw me.”

“I should’ve told you long before I did.” She sighs softly and steps toward him and he meets her eyes and takes a step forward too, slipping an arm around her shoulders and cradling her head. The collar of her dress, stiff with embroidery, pokes him in the neck. He’s forgotten how tall she’d grown while he wasn’t there to see it.

She relaxes against him, resting her chin on his shoulder, and a part of him is a little surprised at how easy this seems for her. But then, her heart has always been the greatest part of her. He should have remembered that too.

They stand like that for a long moment, holding on to each other, and then she shifts in his arms and looks up. “Come and sit,” she says, clasping his hand.

“Ciri - ”

“Don’t say you have to go.”

“No, of course not. I was going to say I’m starving.”

“Oh,” she says and her mouth curves into a smile.

The next few minutes pass in a flurry of activity, servants rushing silently back and forth, depositing covered dishes on the table. They are too well-trained to stare at the way he’s wolfing down whatever’s been set in front of him but their pinched expressions shout horrified disapproval. Geralt can’t find it in himself to care. Except for the lamb and lentil stew and unfamiliar, slightly sweet flatbread that his tongue finds exotic he has no idea what it is he’s eating. He can’t care about that either.

Ciri sits across the table from him, watching him with her head cocked slightly, trying not to smile. “Leave some room for the chocolate mousse,” she says. He can feel her affection like the sun.

He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Chocolate what now?”

“Mousse. It’s - look, I can’t really explain. Just trust me, it’s to die for.”

She’s right. “This,” he says five minutes later, licking the last of the mousse off the spoon, “is the secret to the meaning of life.”

Ciri laughs and the sound warms the room. “Can you believe Yen doesn’t like it? Too sweet, she says. It’s not chocolate if it’s not bitter.”

That does sound like Yen - but Yen is one subject he’d like to avoid, even with Ciri. He returns her smile and leaves it at that; she looks bemused for a second but lets it go. “I came to see you,” she tells him. “You looked like a corpse. It was unsettling. Yen said you had a fever. Did you know you’ve slept for nearly three days?”

“That long?”

“Mhm”.

Geralt shrugs. “Guess I needed it. Did you bring my swords?”

“Your swords?” Ciri glances sideways at the carved bench where he’d left them before he sat down to eat. “Did they take them from you? I gave the orders not to a long time ago.” She frowns, mouth tight, then shakes her head, dismissing it. “I suppose it might have been too long.”

Guilt twinges in his chest and leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He washes it down with the mouthful of wine left in his goblet. There’s no point in dwelling on past mistakes. He’s here now.

Ciri reaches out and touches the hilt of the silver, the supple leather wrapped around the metal. “Speaking of swords,” she says, looking a little wistful, “are you well enough to spar? I haven’t in - forever. That is, not with anyone good.”

“Anytime you’re ready to get your ass kicked, Highness,” Geralt says.

She sticks her tongue out at him.

She’s rusty and he does kick her ass without mercy. But she’s quick and determined and not above using that time displacement thing she does, relentless in her attempts to get past his guard, so it’s challenge enough that the exercise gets his blood flowing.

He can see the red marks his practice sword left on her forearms. Sweat is dampening her hair, soaking the collar of her shirt, sticking the cotton to her back. She’s all but done in, he thinks regretfully, listening to her jerky breathing. She comes at him with an overhead strike that he easily parries. “Faster,” he says, with a sharp hit to her thigh. She backs off a step, then another. They circle each other again, intent and focused. Another insulting parry, this time with a snap to her ass that makes her hop, looking pissed. “You don’t like that? Then be faster.” She bares her teeth at him.

The sound of approaching footsteps behind him resolves into a familiar cadence and he turns slowly, lowering his sword. His heart thuds in his chest, once, a brief sharp pain. All this time and she still takes his breath away - and somehow he’s still surprised at the bitter longing that comes with seeing her, hurt and want and regret all bound up together. He breathes out, careful not to sigh.

“Yen,” he says when she stops at the edge of the training field. The sun is setting and the orange light on her face makes her look like a painting.

“I take it you’re better.” She looks him up and down but the interest is purely clinical.

“I'm good,” he says. “Thanks.” It’s not a lie but it’s not the truth either.

“I’ve cleaned up your joints. That knee of yours had no cartilage left to speak of.” Her gaze shifts away from him. “Ciri - ”

“I know, I know,” Ciri says, coming up beside him. “The dinner. I’ve not forgotten - though I wish I could.”

“It just so happens you can.”

Ciri stills. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that your evening is your own. I’ll take care of it.”

“Really?”

“Really. The Ambassador shall have my undivided attention. That ought to keep him happy.”

“I’ll say.” Ciri covers the distance between them in one leap, dropping the training sword as she goes. “Thank you,” she murmurs, throwing her arms around Yennefer, and her smile is so tender and fond it makes Geralt’s heart ache a little.

“You smell disgusting,” Yennefer says, muffled, but she makes no move to pull away. “You do mean to bathe immediately, yes?”

“Provided I can move my arms.” Ciri steps back, raising her hands over her head and stretching. “Ow. Ow. Bloody hell.”

Geralt can’t help but wince in sympathy - she’s going to be sore for days. Yennefer’s eyes settle on him, her expression unreadable. “What?” he says, a little too sharply. “I wasn’t about to hand her something she didn’t earn.”

“I didn’t think you would, or should. Besides, she can use a good spanking now and then.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Ciri says.

Yennefer’s mouth quirks slightly. “I know. That’s why I say it.” Geralt catches her eyes and for a moment they are united in their amusement. “Well,” she says after a short silence. “I’ve got an ambassador to appease.”

He stands there, watching her walk away because there’s nothing else he can do. He can feel Ciri’s eyes on him but she doesn’t say anything. He’s thankful for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting and for going off-track a bit. I decided to expand Ciri's presence to the story - it just felt wrong to short Geralt of his time with her - but then the chapter got to be too long, I kept going back and forth on which part belongs where, and finally ended up splitting it the way it is now. It'll get back to Geralt/Yennefer in the next chapter, I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again it took longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I might have been wrong about the story length; at this point it looks like there will be 3 more chapters.

He and Ciri eat dinner out on her balcony: crisp salty duck and sliced potatoes, fried in an unfamiliar way; a salad with walnuts and cheese; oysters and some sort of mincemeat loaf she calls ‘terrine’. Geralt isn’t all that hungry but Ciri is enjoying the hell out of spoiling him and he doesn’t have the heart to ruin her fun. Besides, he’ll be back to stale bread and half-seared game soon enough. He might as well live a little. The smooth mellow wine is exquisite, a perfect counterpoint to the spicy meat, and by the end of it he’s feeling decadent and cosseted and unlikely to look at food for a week.

Darkness falls, quick in the south, the sky a haze of pink and gold one minute and black the next. Ciri insists he try coffee, a novelty introduced by someone clever in just the right way to become all the rage at court. He does, and the best he can say for it is that it smells better than it tastes but milk and sugar make it marginally tolerable. Ciri informs him it’s an acquired taste, rolling her eyes when he asks why the hell he’d want to acquire it. In the end she has it replaced with hot chocolate, to his heartfelt approval.

The court is moving to Loc Grim for the summer and she’s expected there tomorrow. She asks if he wants to come with her but it’s clear from her tone she knows the answer already. He doesn’t belong in Loc Grim any more than he does here. He promises her he won’t wait too long before coming to see her again. She kisses his cheek as he leaves.

He descends the stairway at the back of the building and crosses the cobbled courtyard. Beyond the arched postern lies a row of tidy service buildings and past them the stables. His steps slow as he nears the gate and he isn’t sure why. There’s nothing keeping him here.

Maybe if he repeats that a hundred times over it’ll become true.

Hasn’t he done enough lying to himself?

The guards at the gate eye him suspiciously as he turns around; he can feel their stares like an itch between his shoulder blades. He turns left, following a walkway that winds itself through the palace grounds. When it climbs, bringing him closer to the palace proper, music and laughter float out through the tall windows. He walks on, leaving behind the lilt of flute and lyre, until the breeze ruffling his hair takes on the scent of juniper and pine and a dense cluster of trees looms green ahead of him.

The sanctuary is a small round building, its mostly-nonexistent roof supported by narrow columns, its interior empty except for a stone bench and a sundial with a weathered face. He wonders if it had some religious significance in the past; if it still does. There’s latent power in this place - he can feel it, if barely. He wonders, as he sits down on the bench, if Yen comes here sometimes. Wild flowers poke through the cracked tiles and he touches the soft petals of a bluebell. For the first time in years he allows himself to really think about her; his thoughts only probed at it like a badly healed wound he couldn’t leave alone, before.

_“Maybe we should sit,” he said. “You look dazed.”_

_“I’m not. But I’m glad it’s over.” She exhaled slowly._

_“Yes,” he said, staring out into the frozen vista in front of them. “It’s all over. There’s nothing between us anymore.”_

_She sucked in a breath so ragged for a second he thought she might cry. It was an absurd notion. In the two and a half decades he’d known her he had seen her cry twice. He forced himself to look at her. He owed her that much. Her eyes were dry and the air tangled in his throat; he had never wished for anything so badly as he wished, in that moment, that he could turn back time. That he’d have known. That she’d have let him see, before. He’d thought there was nothing left to do but let go._

_He reached out to her, trying to find his voice, but her face had already closed - a door slamming shut. She stepped back, away from him, and he ducked his head, his mouth full of unsaid words._

They hadn’t seen each other in two years and she was colder, harder to reach than ever. His head wasn’t in the right place, what with Ciri missing and the Wild Hunt after her and a myriad other things coming up along the way, Dandelion and Triss and countless others all clamoring for his help, demanding his attention like he was in charge of miracles. He couldn’t take a piss without being told that someone had a problem only he could resolve and it was life or death and would he hurry it up already.

All these years he’d been trying to find a way to make it work, to end the painful cycle of loving and losing and leaving. Holding on to her had been like grasping a blade without a hilt: it didn’t know how to not cut and he kept getting sliced open, over and over. He didn’t think he could do it again.

He isn’t sure why he imagined everything would just fall into place after that. It felt like he’d wrenched away a part of himself. Sunlight slanting through the lattice of leaves made him think of waking up next to her, watching shadows play across her skin. His fingers holding the reins flexed at the memory of his hands fitting around her. Her scent filtered itself into his dreams. Thinking of her voice whispering in someone else’s ear made him want to steer his horse down a ravine just to get those images out of his head.

Missing her has always been hell. But out among the hills and dales and swamps, sword in hand, he could push it to the back of his mind. He ate and he slept and he fought. The sun kept coming up. He could tell himself he was all right and mostly it didn’t feel like too big a lie.

Seeing her has upset that careful balance and there is no going back to it. What he has now is more than nothing and less than something, and it’s probably all he’ll ever get - but it’s somehow rekindled a small flickering tendril of hope. A frail, painful thing he could do without, except that now he’s terrified of losing it.

Soft rain falls on his shoulders, cool through the linen shirt, and he turns his face up to it. The candles are almost all extinguished in the palace windows. He gets to his feet, impatient all of the sudden, shivering a little in the night air.

She opens the door almost as soon as he knocks. “Geralt,” she says and she doesn’t seem surprised. She’s wearing a dress that leaves her shoulders bare; it looks like it cost more than he can earn in a year. Her hair is pinned up. He’s never seen it like that before.

Everything wells up in him, love and sorrow and regret too close to the surface. “You look beautiful,” he says.

Her mouth tightens and she shakes her head. “Geralt, what are you doing?” she says. It isn't really a question.

“Can’t we talk?”

“Why? You’re better. I’m glad. There’s nothing else.” The lantern fixed to a column behind him makes the air shimmer and the shadows sway, deepening the darkness that veils her face. “I’ve no wish to reminisce about the good old times.”

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” he asks quietly.

She shrugs with one shoulder. “Not all of it, no.” Her voice is as level as her eyes and he wants to reach out and peel back all these layers of silk and velvet and composure so he can find the woman he used to know underneath. He wants to muss up her immaculate hair and tangle his fingers in it, trace the line of her collarbones with his mouth and feel her shiver under his touch. He wants to bicker with her over a hundred dinners and tumble her into bed and find her there in the morning, smiling when she looks at him.

Instead she looks away and her mouth is set in a tight line. The silence stretches, vast as the Great Sea. “Fine,” she says finally, lifting her chin, and takes a backward step to let him enter. “Let’s get this over with.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Whisky?” she asks as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Won’t say no.”

She goes to the carved sideboard dominating the entry. “Sit if you like,” she says, splashing whisky into glasses. She hands one to him before settling in an armchair, her legs crossed.

“Thanks.” He breathes in the perfume of the whiskey, heady and earthy and potent. “Damn shame about the distillery,” he sighs. He’s too restless to sit so he leans back against the windowsill, at right angles to her.

“Oh, don’t fret,” she says, sipping from her glass. “It’ll reopen soon enough.”

“How do you know that?”

“I own it.”

“You own the distillery,” he repeats, staring. Her dress has ridden up her legs and he has to look away or be lost in the memory of her skin.

She raises her eyebrows in a way that says she knows exactly what he’s thinking; she doesn’t fix the dress. “What of it? I own a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm. Like the Passiflora, for instance.”

He very nearly drops his drink. “You’re having me on,” he says, shocked in three different ways at once.

“Not in the least.”

“You bought a brothel in Novigrad.”

“I bought most of them in Novigrad. It’s good investment. Have you some insight to offer?” There’s the barest trace of amusement in her voice.

“No.” He says a fond farewell to the Passiflora in his mind. “Never knew you did that, is all. Invested, I mean.”

“Geralt, you never knew anything about my finances.”

He grunts into his whisky. “Didn’t think it was any of my business.”

“It wasn’t. But I’d have told you had you asked.”

For a minute she toys idly with her drink, then drains it and reaches for the bottle she set on the low table beside her.

“I haven’t thanked you,” Geralt says. “For - taking care of me.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” She lifts her head and pins him to the windowsill with her eyes. “That was the last time, Geralt. You can’t keep coming back to me for this. You’ll have to find your cock therapy elsewhere.”

She does have a way with words, Yennefer does. “Cock therapy,” he says, staring down at his hands. “That’s funny, Yen. And clever. You’ve always been so damn clever.” His voice is loaded and when he glances up her eyes have narrowed to slits.

“Do you see that pond, Geralt? Over there, between those trees? How’s the water, do you think?”

“Been there, done that.” He knocks back half his drink and then grimaces because it’s true in more ways than one. He has no idea how their conversation has gone off track so quickly - like a thousand other conversations they’ve had. “I don’t want to fight, Yen,” he says quietly.

“No? You could’ve fooled me.” She fills her glass and takes a long swallow. “So what is it you want?”

Words pile up in his throat and he has to turn away, facing the window that looks down over the garden. The night is warm and redolent of flowers and he drinks slowly, breathing it in. The whisky burns on its way down. “You,” he says, relishing the sting.

She laughs, a quick soft burst. “You don’t ask for much, do you.”

“Only everything,” he agrees.

“Except there’s nothing between us anymore.” He can hear her shift and her whisky slosh in her hand. “Isn’t that what you said?”

It’s cowardice to talk about it without looking at her and he turns around. “I know what I said. And I know I can’t make it go away just by wanting it to.”

“Why Geralt, you smooth talker, you. I'm shocked there aren’t droves of women, all lining up to hear how you don’t wish to feel a thing for them.” She falls silent and he lets the pause stretch. After a moment she sighs. “Maybe you did have a point,” she says and there’s no venom in her words anymore. “Isn’t nothing better than this?”

“No. It’s wretched. I don’t want it to be nothing.”

“For how long, Geralt? How long before you grow bored again and run back to your Path?”

“It was never boredom, Yen. You know that.”

When he tries to meet her gaze she looks away. “Call it what you will. You couldn’t stay put if I leashed you and hobbled you.”

“That was years ago.” He tosses back the dregs of his whisky, holding it in his mouth until it makes him wince, and sets the empty glass on the windowsill. “I’m tired of the Path. I've been tired of it since before Avalon.”

“Really. So you mean to - what? Retire? Buy a farm? Milk cows and tend to your vegetable garden?”

“No vegetables and definitely no cows.” He shrugs. “Raise horses, maybe. Make wine.”

“You _have_ thought about it,” she says slowly. “Why horses and wine?”

“Because I like horses and I have a vineyard and there’s room - ”

“You have a vineyard.”

“In Toussaint. The vintage from last year’s crop turned out great. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. You want to see it?”

“The wine or the money?” He gives her a look and she makes a sharp gesture, almost sloshing her drink over the side of the glass. “Geralt, I’m not riding to Toussaint with you.”

“So open a portal.”

“You hate portals.”

“I hate missing you more.”

She lets out a weak little laugh. “Oh, Geralt.”

“I love you,” he says, catching her eyes, and her face tightens.

“Geralt,” she says, in a careful tone he’s hardly ever heard from her, “you got soundly fucked and you’re feeling sentimental. You always do. It shall pass, I promise. Give it another day - ”

“It hasn’t, in twenty some years.” He can see that he's unsettled her, that her eyes are shadowed and her jaw is tense, that her fingers clutch her drink a little too hard. _Good_ , he thinks. _Live with it._ “I love you,” he says again.

She puts her glass down forcefully and gets to her feet. “Don’t keep saying that.”

“Why not? It’s true. I - ”

She moves to stand in front of him, close enough to touch, and presses her fingers to his mouth. “Stop talking, Geralt,” she says and crushes her mouth against his. For a second he tries to resist: they have always, in crucial moments, let their bodies speak for them - for all the good it’s done them. But she whispers, “You taste like rain,” against his lips and pushes her tongue into his mouth, flicking it everywhere, and he surrenders to her.

He strokes the curve of her hip and she arches into him. The warmth of her, pressed up against him, is dizzying. She jerks his shirt up roughly. Her nails scrape over his stomach and he shivers, feeling his skin prickle with goosebumps and his cock stiffen. He pushes her dress up her thigh and she raises a knee to help him. “Yes,” she says into his mouth. He can feel every inch of her, familiar under his hands.

When she breaks the kiss he lets her. She can have anything she wants of him, any way she wants it. “Well, I’m not having you on a windowsill,” she murmurs, pushing off his chest. She takes his hand and leads him to the inner chamber.

She’s glorious, naked, just like he remembers it; better. She crosses the room to stand by the bed and looks at him and he goes to her, reaching up to run his hands down her back. He doesn’t expect the shove and falls backwards onto the bed. But she keeps kissing him as she straddles him, her teeth sharp against his tongue, her spine curved under the flow of her hair. His cock is trapped between her and his stomach and he can feel the heat coming off of her cunt. He slides his fingers into her and she's so slick he shudders. He rolls, taking her with him.

"I love you," he says as he pushes inside her, because he has to - because she has to understand. She cries out, her whole body rising up. He rocks into her and she’s hot and wet around his cock, unbearably perfect, and he thinks, _Tell me you love me. Lie if you have to,_ thrusting faster, harder, half-mad with it. But she only grinds her hips into him, her neck arched, her hair a wild mess, dark as the night at her window. She keeps her eyes open.

He can feel her tighten when she starts to come and he wants to see it but she’s writhing under him and he can’t hold on. He fucks into her harder, so hard the muscles in his back begin to cramp. Her fingers dig into his hips, pulling him down, deeper into her. She holds him there and makes a small sound and he feels himself pulsing inside her as she ripples around him.

He eases off her once he can move and pulls her to him, his face buried in the fall of her hair so he can keep breathing in the scent of her. She stays for a bit before she pushes away from him and slips off the bed. He can hear her footsteps, light and quick. When he opens his eyes she is standing by the dresser, whisky bottle in hand. She raises it and takes a long swig.

“That good, huh,” he says, half-apprehensive, half-flippant.

She holds out her hand to stop him talking and drinks again. “It’s always good with you,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She sets the bottle on the dresser. “I shall miss it.”

His medallion vibrates as he sits up in the bed. “I thought - ” he begins.

“What did you think, Geralt?” Fully clothed she peers into the mirror, her hands going to her hair, fixing some invisible flaw. “We fucked. It doesn’t have to mean a thing.”

“It meant something,” he says, his throat so tight he can barely get the words out. “Yen, I love you. You can’t tell me it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I feel anything or if I don’t. It doesn’t matter if you think you love me. You shan’t put me through all the miserable shit all over again. I’ll not let you.”

“If I _think_ I love you?” It takes him a moment to realize she’s watching him in the mirror, violet eyes hard as gemstones.

“Geralt, you only ever want what you can’t have. You love me. You care nothing for me. You love me again - no sooner than I’ve moved on with my life.” She turns her head and looks at him over her shoulder, her face still faintly flushed. “It’s a day late and a crown short.” She raises her hands; a portal yawns open beside her and she takes a step toward it and stops. “Take care of yourself, witcher,” she says, her back turned to him. “Don’t get killed.”

He stays in bed, staring at the ceiling as the sheets cool around him. The portal is still there. He could follow her, wherever she went. He could wait here. It’s her home; she’ll have to return eventually.

There’s nothing he can say to her that she’d care to hear. She doesn’t need him or want him. She’s moved on - and she was generous enough to give him a farewell gift. It was great, as pity fucks go.

He gets up and dresses himself. One of the candles on the bedside table falls over, still lit. Maybe the place will catch on fire. He wouldn’t mind watching it burn to the ground. In fact, he could start a really good blaze with a flick of his wrist.

The impulse frightens him. He can’t afford to go around throwing temper tantrums; he’ll drown the world in blood. He rights the candle and puts them all out before he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s not until he swings himself in the saddle that he can even take a real breath again. The first streaks of grey are already showing in the black sky. The scenery blurs around him - white smudges, orange flashes, silvery shadows. He knows it's the palace gates, the flickering torches, the guards’ armor but he can't make out the details. He doesn’t care what road he takes.

He finds himself riding along the central promenade that links the Millennium Square at the heart of the city to Baccala, its port. The pedestrian central zone with its shops and market stalls is crowded even this early in the morning; the din and clamor of it is what popped the bubble that seemed to have cushioned him from the rest of the world. He’s going towards the sea - west instead of east. It doesn’t matter.

The closer to Baccala the busier the road gets with traffic, farmers and fishermen and merchants bringing goods to the city. He negotiates a path between a driver with a wagonload of melons and one with a wagonload of freshly caught trout, a few still flopping at the top of the pile. He gets hissed at for his trouble and has to try and look apologetic as best he can but at least the sensation of being sealed away in a dimension all his own is easing.

He crosses over a series of bridges that span the mouth of the Yaruga. Around the next bend the road branches off. A little pressure with his knees guides Roach to the path bordering the cliffs’ edge. To the south-east he can glimpse the Imperial Palace up on its hill, looming over the terraced gardens and groves. Westward is the crescent-shaped harbor banked with quarried stone - the wharves and the warehouses and some distance away, where a flat outcropping of rock forms a natural pier, the black hulls of the royal warships. The sun has risen over the water and the sky above is a bright, cloudless blue.

On a whim Geralt heads downhill towards the port. It’s too busy to ride unless he means to force his way through and he’s not that far gone. He reins Roach in and dismounts. A knot of fishermen is gathered in the shadow of a freighter, gesturing and talking; he can’t see what they are looking at but it’s probably a shark or a sea monster. Nearby is a trio of girls sorting through barrels of crabs and oysters, their skirts tied up to stay clear of the water foaming around their ankles. Smaller children are running around, poking in the sand.

He passes under a prow of a fishing boat, Roach trailing docilely behind him. At the far end of the docks a group of sailors are busily loading cargo onto a ship. A woman with a pair of daggers at her waist is supervising them. When he nears the ship she gives him a long, deliberate once-over from where's she squatting by a row of baskets piled high with linen. "Looking to buy passage?" she calls out. She has unruly hair the color of wheat and alert hazel eyes sparkling with humor.

"Maybe,” Geralt says. He hasn’t considered traveling by sea until now but the idea has its appeal. It’s not as if he has anywhere to be and a change of pace might do him some good.

The woman levers herself up slowly, pressing her hands to her thighs. She’s almost of a height with him, all long lean legs and honey-gold skin. "I take no passengers on my ship, as a rule. But something tells me you’re handy with those,” her gaze wanders over him again, taking in his swords, “and anything can happen at sea. You never know when an extra sword arm might come in useful. Or when you’ll need a distraction on lonely nights.” She tips her head to the side and flashes him a smile, frank as her words.

“What’s your destination?” Geralt asks, a little stunned but making an effort to keep it out of his voice. It’s been a long time since a woman flirted with him - if you can qualify this as flirting. But there’s a lot to be said for uncomplicated honesty and she’s very attractive.

“Novigrad," she says as she saunters closer to him. She smells of sea-salt and leather and something faintly sweet she must use on her hair. “It’s a two-week journey. We'll have some time to become better acquainted. No room for the horse,” she goes on, glancing sideways at Roach, “but that long building over there, with a thatched roof? It’s a stable. They’ll take her anywhere you name within the continent. Used the service myself a couple of times, never a problem. It’ll cost you of course.”

Geralt lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Anything worthwhile does.” It’s all he can do to stay with the conversation but he must have said the right thing because she treats him to that smile again.

“I’m Nikia. I’m putting out to sea at noon.”

He leaves Roach at the stable and wanders up one of the twisting alleyways that lead from the docks to the market, with the vague intent to buy some sundries but mostly to kill the few hours until noon. He doesn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts; he needs the bustle of humanity to ground him.

He meant to go back to Toussaint but there’s no real reason to and Novigrad is as good a destination as any. He hasn’t been there in a while; maybe he’ll find an interesting contract in the area. Or he could ride east and see if the Ofieri horse trader he’d run into back a few years ago is still around. The man might answer some questions he’s got about their breeding stock.

And he could sure as hell use a reminder that life goes on. It wouldn’t be the first time he tried to forget Yen in someone else’s arms.

He’s never managed it.

His body still feels her touch, his skin still bears the marks of her mouth.

Best not to go there. But the memory has already surfaced and his throat clenches painfully and he shuts his eyes for a moment. Someone driving a passing wagon hollers, "Move yer arse!" while he stands blinking in the sunny street. From the sidewalk a wizened old man eyeballs him, tapping his pink skull in a pointed gesture. A sailor swigging from a wineskin rushes past, followed by two basket-wielding matrons shouting shrill insults at each other. The thump and rattle of a cart burdened with wine barrels drowns out their voices.

He ducks into a narrow space between a weaver’s shop and a bakery, smelling warm bread and honey. The alley opens into a bustling marketplace with a makeshift stage at its center. Two actors frolic on it, dressed in fleece and bleating up a storm, and all around people are laughing and whistling and clapping. His head thuds with a dull rhythm. Wincing he sidesteps a cheering couple - the woman loud as a horn, the man slapping his meaty thigh - and pushes open the door of a nearby shop. It groans on its hinges but does a fair job of blocking the worst of the noise once it slams shut behind him.

Casting quickly about he stifles a sigh. It’s a jewelry shop. Of course it is; he can’t think of anything he has less use for than jewelry.

“What can I do fer you?” the goldsmith greets him, an older dwarf with a neatly trimmed beard, short and stocky like most of his brethren.

Geralt mutters a greeting in return, trying to decide what’s worse, going back outside or pretending he has some business here. Eventually he crosses the floor and leans over the counter, frowning down at the pendants and bracelets and rings in their velvet-lined boxes laid out in neat rows along the polished oak.

“Give one o’these to yer sweetheart an’ she’ll love you forever,” the goldsmith says.

“Is that so?” He isn’t sure whether to laugh or weep at that one.

“It’ll get you laid, worst case.”

Geralt snorts, amused despite himself. His medallion jolts, startling him, and he curls his fingers around it. “And what’s the enchantment?” he asks, looking up.

The goldsmith gives him a curious stare. “Can sense it, huh? Keeps ‘em nice and shiny, is all. Never a nick, mark my words.”

“So you can work enchanted metals,” Geralt says slowly, struck by a sudden thought.

“Sure can.”

Geralt nods. Before he can think on it any further -  before he can talk himself out of it or change his mind - he unfastens the chain from around his neck. “Could you do something with this?”

“Do somethin’?” The dwarf squints at him in confusion.

“Reforge it into something else.”

“Ah.” The goldsmith takes the medallion from his hand and weights it in his palm, turns it over in his fingers a few times. “Reckon I could. What’s it to be?”

The human-ovine performance is mercifully over by the time Geralt steps outside and the crowd has thinned. He buys some provisions for the road along with a skin of local summer wine. He goes back to the bakery and gets a honey cake and a flagon of apple cider. He eats outside, at one of the tiny tables placed along the edge of the marketplace, watching a group of hawk-faced teens shoot marbles in the middle of a side street.

The goldsmith promised to have the ring ready before sundown. He’ll go get Roach and stop by the palace on his way out of the city. He knows Yen won’t be there; she won’t return to her place until she’s certain he’s gone. Just as well. Seeing her would only hurt more and there’s no point in talking. Talking doesn’t erase the past. Words don’t change who they are. He’ll leave the ring on her dresser, where she’ll be sure to find it. That way she’ll know it’s for her to do with as she will.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than I was hoping; sorry about that. I had four different versions written and I kept swapping things around until it drove me crazy. It turned out to be too long so I'm breaking it into two chapters - but since this one is short and not much more than a transition I'll be posting both of them together (besides if I don't I'll probably be re-writing the last one for the rest of my life).

The sun is barely a glimmer on the horizon when Geralt leaves the City of the Golden Towers behind. Every league takes him farther away from her and he wants to look back but he won’t let himself. He won’t let himself think of the sun-drenched emptiness of her rooms where he left the ring, or the impulse to reach up and take the charcoal sketches off the wall and store them, wrapped in a spare shirt, at the bottom of his saddlebags.

He follows the Alba east for the rest of the evening, mostly to give Stygga a wide berth once he heads north; if he never lays eyes on those fucking walls again it’ll be too soon. He camps near a stream late that night, allowing Roach her rest after a long stretch of riding. He sits by the water and stares at the quivering trail of moonlight, occasionally making it ripple with a long stick, drinking from his wineskin. The whole of their history stares back at him, split into moments of misery and breathless, blinding joy. After all these years he ought to have learned how to cope with losing her but it’s every bit as wretched as ever. He isn’t whole without her and the weight of that awareness flattens him to the ground. Then again, it could be the wine.

A few drops of it are running down the side of the skin and he wipes them off with a finger and flicks them into the fire. They pop and spark.

Strange that he feels no resentment toward her. There was always a part of him, before, that wanted her to hurt as he was hurting. Maybe it’s because he remembers the way her face had crumpled, for that split second before it became unreadable again; her composure has always been remarkable. He had never intended to wound her but the growing distance between them had frightened him and so he’d struck first - for no reason, as it turned out. He isn’t sure which was worse, the moment he saw the devastation he’d put on her face and knew his mistake or the next one, when he let her walk away.

His breath stutters and the air gets stuck in his throat and gods this is stupid, he’s being stupid, this isn’t helping, he needs to get a grip on it. But there’s no godsdamn air to breathe and something jagged is lodged in his chest and he clenches his fists, forcing himself to take one shallow breath and then another until there’s no ragged edge in them anymore.

Somehow, exhausted by the muddle of thoughts, he falls into an anxious, jerky sleep. He wakes to a raging headache and an empty wineskin. His mouth is drier than a desert, the faint sunlight hurts his eyes, and Roach gives him a black look when he nears her. Cringing he strips off his wine-stained clothes and wades into the stream. Ten minutes later, feeling a bit more like himself - enough to be disgusted with the bout of self-pity - he mounts up and touches his heels to the mare’s flanks.

He doesn’t look for work; it finds him, farther north where the Imlebar had flooded with the heavy spring rains. He was only vaguely aware of the disaster on his way south, in no shape to realize the extent of it. The river has since retreated, leaving broken homes and broken bodies, bloated and blue-white, in its wake. He spends over a week clearing the area of drowners and necrophages and blowing up their nests. It’s tedious work and grueling because of the sheer volume of it but it needs doing and it keeps him from seeking solace at the bottom of a wineskin.

He doesn’t expect it but in the end he gets paid - for doing away with human scum who had taken over a river crossing, controlling the only supply route south. Killing men preying on the homeless and the starving feels no different than putting down ghouls and he actually gets a _Gods keep you!_ instead of horrified stares when he’s done. He declines to take a share from the marauders’ stash and leaves before he has to witness the inevitable scuffle between destitute people who have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Some hours later he runs into a contingent of soldiers dispatched from Maecht to assist the populace affected by the flood. Geralt appraises their captain of the situation at the crossing and gets an incredulous look. Then the word _Vatt'Ghern_ makes its way into the conversation and curiosity replaces disbelief. The upshot of it is that he rides off with a heavy purse as apparently the band he disposed of had had a fat bounty placed on their heads. As he watches the soldiers march off in the direction of the river, followed by wagons laden with food and grain, he can’t help but smile. He can guess whose hand signed their orders and he thinks, _She was right. She can do better than hunting monsters round forgotten villages._

Days slip by and it’s midsummer by the time he enters the Malheur Pass. Emerging on the other side he shades his eyes from the setting sun and looks over the picturesque valley below. Two days of uphill terrain have left him too weary to appreciate its prettiness but all the same it’s a welcome sight.

He used to feel there was a purity to the Path. No pretense at normality, no attempts at domestic bliss. Just existence pared down to its essence, each stop a temporary shelter, each step a possible test. He kept his swords honed and his saddlebags light and he rode through forests and swamps, indulging in a luxury of a hot meal and a hot bath if he could afford it. He made the world a little safer and he enjoyed the challenge of it. He wasn’t always content with his lot but he outpaced his frustration and sweated out his anger. It was enough.

But then he met Yen and, after years of longing and stolen moments, he thought they’d be able to finally enjoy their fill of each other - only there was Rivia and nothing ever came of it. Now, another decade later, he has some of what he wanted then. He can sleep in his own bed and eat at his own table; those are the things he understands make a home.

His hands tighten on the reins and Roach begins moving carefully down the winding road.

**::**

He’s slouched comfortably on the porch, booted feet propped up on the railing, picking at a plateful of grapes fresh from the vine. Summer is turning into autumn and the leaves are changing colors. His gaze wanders over the sprawling vineyard where the workers are tending to the harvest and past it the emerald-green hills against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. He wasn’t all too sure he’d fit into this idyllic setting that wasn’t constructed for him but so far it’s worked out all right.

He’s remained in Toussaint for the rest of the summer but, as it turns out, he doesn’t have to walk the Path to find work these days. He doesn’t know whom he should thank - or curse - for this but hardly a week goes by without someone in need of a witcher knocking on his door. He doesn’t mind, in truth; it gives him purpose, not to mention he can’t recall the last time he had to haggle for pay. At this rate he’ll be able to afford the additions to the stables and a proper training course he’s been meaning to build come spring.

A boy sent by the majordomo runs up to inform him that his bath is ready. Setting the plate aside Geralt locks his hands behind his neck and stretches. His muscles ache as he rises to his feet. He’s only just returned from Fox Hollow where he cleared out an arachnomorph nest and it wasn’t an easy fight. The damned things like to skitter away and spit webbing from a distance so he had to rely on _Yrden_ several times, and using signs without a witcher medallion to channel the power always takes a toll on him.

In the bedroom he sheds his clothes and gets into the tub. He washes himself with a fresh bar of soap, then soaks in the hot water scented with herbs, almost drowsing, until a knock at the door jolts him out of it. The sharp double-tap is familiar and he sits up, bending his knees. “Come in, BB,” he calls out.

His majordomo bows, head lowered, from the doorstep. “My apologies, Master Witcher, but I'm afraid the matter requires your immediate attention.”

“It’s fine. What’s happened?”

“Some unknown individual barged into the residence. I resisted as best I could but to no avail.” BB rocks back on his heels, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Who is it?”

“Alas, the lady did not do me the basic courtesy of introducing herself.”

“The lady,” Geralt repeats even as his heart skips a beat.

“Yes, indeed. A very fine lady in equally fine dress - who nonetheless displayed a complete and utter lack of social graces.”

“All right. I’ll be there soon.”

With another bow BB leaves. Geralt climbs out of the tub and towels off and dresses himself quickly in the deepening twilight.


	8. Chapter 8

She’s in his study. Her scent washes over him before he enters the room and he has to make a conscious effort not to close his eyes and inhale. The sight of her makes his stomach twist with longing.

“Yen. Something happened?” he asks, letting his feet carry him across the floor.

She turns to him. “Ciri is fine,” she says. “There’s no one needs saving or killing.”

“All right.” He’s grateful for the assurance even if it’s wrapped in sarcasm. Some bonds between them will never be broken. It’s a comforting thought and something that was strung taut inside him eases a little. “Do you want to sit down?”

She shakes her head. They look at each other for a long moment. When her eyes finally flicker away Geralt perches on the edge of the desk, arms crossed.

“I wondered where that went,” she says.

He doesn’t need to follow her gaze to know she’s looking at the drawings of her he hung above the desk. He has nothing to say - nothing that could serve as an explanation or excuse anyway - so he just shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck under his still-damp hair.

“Back a few years ago,” she says, watching him with an amused expression that could mean almost anything, “an embassy from Ofier brought this gorgeous white mare as a gift for Ciri. You know what their horses are like - fast and agile and spirited, and this one was a pacer to boot.” She pauses and he nods, a little baffled but curious to hear the rest. “Ciri couldn’t wait to ride her. The first time she did the horse got spooked - some noise she wasn’t used to - and threw herself sideways at a fence. Ciri’s leg was broken in three places. The damage was healed of course but she had to keep the leg immobile for several days and couldn’t do anything strenuous for a month after. Needless to say she drove everyone around her batty by the end of the first week.”

“I can imagine,” Geralt mutters.

“The long and short of it was that Emhyr suggested painting lessons to occupy her.”

It takes him a second to make the connection. “ _Ciri_ drew these?”

“Not then. Later. She took to it; surprised everyone including herself. She said she'd never even doodled as a child. She still does it every now and then. She won’t paint - too much of an ordeal, she says - but she likes charcoal.”

The silence of the next few minutes is overwhelming but he’s not about to rush her. Her presence is a precious gift; he doesn’t want to drive her away. He’s acutely aware of the way her hair falls around her shoulders, how her skirt fits her like a glove, how the candlelight edges her profile in gold, softening the stark beauty of her face.

“Your home is lovely, Geralt,” she says at last.

“Thank you,” he says, trying to keep the ache out of his voice. I wanted it to be _our_ home, he doesn’t say.

“You’ve a butler.” She sounds disbelieving.

“He likes ‘majordomo’ better.”

She grimaces a little. “He _likes_ to ask too many questions.”

“Did he give you a hard time?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a lightning bolt.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, the sound rough in his throat, but she quirks an eyebrow at him and he quiets, alarmed. “You didn’t.”

“Of course not. It was only a small fireball.” She rolls her eyes, the careful blankness of her face giving way to wry humor. “Give me some credit, will you? It’s good you have your people’s loyalty.” Sometimes when they speak it feels like the old times - like they still fit together, for better or worse. But it doesn’t last. She glances down and away, her hand going to her throat, touching the pendant briefly. Her fingers are trembling, just a little. After a beat she lets her eyes meet his again. “I came because of this,” she says. She holds out her other hand and the light glints off the ring in her palm.

He looks down at it and back to her. “Did you only just find it?” It makes no sense; she couldn’t have missed it, the way he’d left it sitting next to the flacon of her perfume.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I - wasn’t sure what to do about it.” There’s something like compassion in her eyes and his stomach knots up all over again.

“But you are now,” he says slowly.

“Do you have the rest?”

He only hesitates a moment before he reaches into the desk drawer. It’s hardly unexpected, he tells himself, his throat tight with bitter disappointment. He watches the ring and the chain melt and fuse together in a flash of brilliant white. She steps closer and he bends his head, letting her hang the medallion around his neck. It feels like a millstone and a sudden irrational fury sizzles through him. It was his choice to make, even if he made it strung out on his need for her. He meant it. He doesn’t want to take it back. He doesn’t want the damned thing back -

“Geralt,” she says, and he doesn’t want to raise his eyes but her fingertips graze his cheek, cool against his skin, and he can’t help looking at her. It hurts as much as he thought it would. She runs her hands up his arms to his shoulders and he sighs, shifting a little, too startled to pull away. His world is so easily reduced to her touch. “Geralt,” she says again, tracing the taut tendons in his neck. “I couldn’t take that ring. But I didn’t say no.”

The candlelight turns her eyes into fathomless pools; he could drown in them, fall through and find himself on the other side of the world. “You didn’t say yes,” he says, heart pounding.

“Do you still want me to?”

“I love you,” he says, without a second thought. “I always have. I always will.”

She exhales as she leans forward. He watches her until he can’t focus, holding his breath because he’s a century too old to believe in fairytales.  _This can’t be real_ , he thinks. But it feels real enough, and gods he missed the way her hair smells.

He kisses her with his eyes closed. She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him to her, kissing him back, so deep and desperate that it hits him like the adrenaline rush of a fight. He wants to do everything at once. He wants to drink her in with his eyes. He wants her laid out underneath him, pale skin bared for him, body arching under his hands. He wants to taste her and the magic thrumming through her. He wants her hands and her mouth on him.

He shivers as they break apart, running his fingers up her spine under her hair. The freedom to touch her is still unreal and he can’t bring himself to let go of her.

“Take me to bed, Geralt,” she murmurs, her voice melting into his skin. When she steps back her eyes are soft. Gods, to have her look at him like that.

They haven’t even made it through the bedroom door before she’s in his arms again. His medallion jerks, surprising him - he forgot all about it - but it’s only the candles flaring up and her clothes vanishing in a swirl of blue sparks. The line of her throat and collarbones is heartbreakingly lovely. He can feel the points of her nipples through the thin material of his shirt. He sweeps her hair aside to kiss her neck and she makes a sound low in her throat that goes through him like the burn of whisky. In all the years the wonder of her wanting him has never dulled; there’s an edge to it now and after months of careful numbness this intensity of feeling is excruciating.

She pulls his shirt up and draws back a little, letting him tug it over his head and off. Her hands are working to undo his laces in the narrow space between them and he’s still waiting to wake up. Then her fingers wrap around his cock and it crowds out every thought in his head and every sensation. It’s a good thing the bed is only a few steps away.

She rides him with her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed and her lower lip caught between her teeth, the pressure of her hips so exquisite he loses all sense of time. She keeps her hand over his as he strokes her, their joined fingers brushing his cock now and then, and it’s almost too much. But he can feel the trembling in her thighs and the ragged pull of her breath and he grits his teeth, hanging on to the edge until her back arches and she leans forward, crying out, her cunt squeezing around him, her nails prickling his skin where they dig into his wrist.

He kisses her jaw and her parted lips, his grip on her hip so tight he’s afraid she’ll bruise. “Come on, love,” she whispers, touching his face, and he shudders and pulls her down onto him. She rolls her hips, urging him on. Tremors are still running through her body, kneading his cock, and gods, he can’t bear it any longer. He thrusts up into her and comes, rasping her name into the hollow of her throat.

Afterwards they lie in a tangle of sheets, her arm thrown over him and her knee across his thighs. She’s the only woman in his experience who holds on without clinging. He can feel the soft curves of her breasts and the slowing beat of her heart. Her hair is caught in the stubble of his cheek and he brushes it back with gentle fingers.

The shadows on the walls sway as the candles flicker, their glow made warmer by the darkness glimpsed through the shutters. He shifts his arms so he can hold her close, breathing her in. The room is hazy around him. He doesn’t want to fall asleep but the day has left him wrung out and his eyes drift shut. Her fingers are tracing the scars on his back; he can feel her touch even where there’s no sensation in his skin.

“I love you,” she says, taking away his breath for a moment.

When he opens his eyes she’s all he can see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading; and especially heartfelt thanks to those who took the time to leave feedback - I am honestly not sure if I'd have had the motivation to finish the story without your support.
> 
> I am going to throw a link here to a [Geralt &Yennefer Tribute vid](https://youtu.be/cfQWWi4IuI0?list=LLh4t5R3doizcx3GWXMAsCjw) (based on w3) that I've made some while ago; those of you who came from tumblr have likely seen it already but maybe someone who hasn't will find it enjoyable.


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